Versailles

January 14, 1964, London

I was ready to head to Kenya in the morning. Then the phone rang. It was my boss, Frank Spooner, the picture editor of the Daily Express. “I’m taking you off the Africa assignment,” he said. “We’d like you to go to Paris. The Beatles are on tour there.”

My heart sank. Yes, I’d heard of the Beatles. They were getting bigger—hit song after hit song. But, at 31, I considered myself a serious journalist. As a staff photographer for London’s leading daily paper, I’d covered the rise of the Berlin Wall and broken stories in Egypt, Northern Rhodesia, and Russia. I was more interested in Kenya’s new government than in following around some rock-and-roll group.

“Frank, I’m supposed to go to Africa tomorrow,” I told him. “I’ve had all my shots.” Spooner heard me out and rang off. And I thought, Great, I dodged a bullet. At the Express, I’d built my reputation on hard news. And no place was more cutthroat than London’s Fleet Street, where staff photographers like me fought for scoops, tooth and nail, against guys on rival papers. I knew that once they put you on a music story, you’d be pegged as a show business photographer.

The phone rang again. Spooner had spoken with the top editor. “You’re going to Paris,” he said. “We think you’re perfect for the job. You’re presentable. None of our other photographers are good-looking.” And that was that. I was off to photograph the Beatles.

January 15, Paris

I met John, Paul, and George at the airport in London. Ringo would join us later. They were friendly and polite and sharp. Barely into their 20s, they joked around a lot and were quite mischievous, which I liked.

The band’s manager, Brian Epstein, all of 29, knew that photos in the Express would give the group great exposure back in Britain. So they’d agreed to give me full access. I remember John sitting down with me that day and saying, “I know this is good for you. But this is good for us because you’re doing our publicity for us. Otherwise, this would cost us a lot of money.” My assignment was to wire back one good photograph a day, preferably some kind of exclusive.

I was about 10 years older than the Beatles, which earned me some respect. They related to the fact that I was a scruff from Glasgow, a tough town like Liverpool. When we landed in Paris, a member of their entourage pulled me aside and said, “They like you. You’re not ugly.” Not ugly? Spooner had been right: Physical attractiveness mattered with them. They went to a stylish tailor in Soho — Dougie Millings in the Old Compton Road — who designed their collarless suits. So I fit in. I liked clothes and I wore a jacket.

That night, the band was playing in a music hall outside Paris. Just before they went onstage, I realized I needed another lens. When I went to the car to get it, I heard the first few bars of “All My Loving.” And it clicked for me, even before I’d seen them perform. Their sound was new. I knew right then: I was on the right story. I knew they were going straight to the top.

Harry Benson – From The Beatles Stormed America in 1964. I Was With Them, Day and Night | Vanity Fair, January 17, 2024

Cinema Cyrano

This was the 1st and only concert played at Cinema Cyrano.

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